


Pink (Is My Favorite Crayon)

by plirio



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Comeplay, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Past Sam Winchester/Original Male Character, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plirio/pseuds/plirio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s eighteen now. And he’s a ceremony away from being a free agent, a summer away from being a college student. Apparently, that’s all they needed to start this. </p><p> </p><p>Or, in which all Sam wants this summer is Dean. And Dean’s more than happy to provide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink (Is My Favorite Crayon)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivinne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivinne/gifts).



> Thank you to [stuck_in_reality](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stuck_in_reality) for the beta and for everything. :D Really, thank you.
> 
> Also thank you to [miss_melissa17 for her BEAUTIFUL ART! (nsfw)](http://miss-melissa17.livejournal.com/3778.html) Check it out check it out check it out!

The first time it happens, it’s the day of Sam’s high school graduation. He's walking around the house clutching at his speech cards, looking high as fuck, _relieved to be almost free of the claws of high school_.

They’re getting ready to go: Dean is looking around for his keys and Sam’s talking about his friends’ plans for after the ceremony when Dean asks, “Will there be cheerleaders?”

“No, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes. “No cheerleaders.”

And then.

*

The thing is, Dean likes watching Sam. He likes it when Sam walks around the house in his boxers or when he comes home from soccer practice, still in his uniform, covered in grass stains and sweat. He’d feel creepy about it if it weren’t obvious that Sam does it for him. Sam enjoys it when Dean comes home from work covered in grease and when Dean walks around in his towel after a shower.

But it was just that: looking. It was awesome, gave Dean plenty of spank bank material, but still. Just looking. Sam was seventeen and in high school. Dean’s a pervert and he’ll own up to it, but he’s not _that_ kind of pervert.

Sam’s eighteen now, though. And he’s a ceremony away from being a free agent, a summer away from being a college student. Apparently, that’s all they needed.

*

Sam puts his speech on the kitchen table, crowds Dean against the door and kisses him.

It’s not an uncertain kiss. Not the tentative thing that always happens with first kisses. It’s a possessive, crazy, wet kiss. The kind you give someone before going down on them. It’s the kind of kiss that happens after grinding against someone in a dark club. It’s so fucking good, Dean doesn’t even consider stopping it, doesn’t care that they have a ceremony to go to or that Sam has a speech to give in an hour. Having him this close, this way, is everything Dean’s been wanting for too long. Long enough that it's probably a little creepy.

He grabs Sam’s hair with one hand, and the other goes straight to his ass, pulling until they're pressed against each other and Dean can feel Sam’s dick. He holds on and lets Sam take whatever he wants. It’s his graduation day, what the hell? Sam deserves this.

Apparently what Sam really wants is to suck on Dean’s tongue and rut against him, hard and hot, hands rubbing all over his body until there’s a real possibility of embarrassing wet stains.

Sam pulls away after fuck knows how long. “We’re -- uh, we’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, but his hands won’t budge, and Sam’s hands seem to take the opportunity of a free space between them to feel Dean’s dick through his jeans. Sam hisses at the contact, like he’s the one getting groped, while Dean just stands there, breathing hard, holding onto Sam’s hair and neck, watching Sam’s flushed face. “Yeah,” he nods again, dumbly. “Yeah.”

Sam keeps swallowing, over and over, and Dean realizes that his mouth is watering. Sam’s mouth is literally watering. Dean’s about to say that they should forget this graduation business and explore the delightful things that could happen with Sam’s wet mouth, when Sam’s phone rings and they separate.

Dean grabs his keys and wallet while Sam answers the phone. His voice sounds rough, like he spent the day shouting or just got his throat fucked. That thought makes Dean’s knees feel a little weak, and his whole body feel a lot awesome.

*

Nothing else happens that day.

Sam gives his speech and Dean pretends not to tear up. They take pictures, and Dean tries not to compare other lame kids to Sam. Some of them seem smart, but Sam’s valedictorian and he has a full ride to Stanford. His soccer team won the championship and he kisses better than some people suck dick, so Dean’s completely unimpressed by these other kids and their lame parents competing through their kids' successes.

After that, Sam leaves to go celebrate his freedom with his friends while Dean goes to work to get his stuff and survive a farewell party with _cake and cheap beer_.

Dean’ll have to hit the store on the way home. Pie and good beer is almost acceptable compensation for blue balls.

*

Nothing happens the next day, either. Sam’s recovering from a night of too much shitty beer while Dean organizes shit for the move.

But even with Sam on the couch, wrapped in the most _fugly_ throw they own, nursing a hangover and eating cold leftover Thai, and with Dean doing paperwork and finalizing everything he can over the phone, there’s still this tension in the air. Whenever they're in the same room there’s a moment of pause, like they’re both waiting, before they realize that it’s probably not the time for it.

It’s ridiculous. Sam looks half dead and there’s nothing Dean hates more than being a responsible adult who does paperwork and talks to assholes on the phone, but he still spends most of the day thinking about the way Sam’s mouth kept watering and the way his tight ass felt in Dean’s hands.

*

They decided that, on Monday, they’d start packing. Dean starts his new job in Palo Alto in two weeks and Sam wants to find a job, and they both need to buy so much shit for their new place: furniture, towels and bunch of shit Sam keeps adding to the list. _Laundry baskets?_ What the hell, Sammy?

Dean’s on the kitchen floor trying to fix the dishwasher he promised to give to one of the guys from the garage, when Sam walks in. He’s been sorting what they'll donate and what will have stay. Apparently, that's hard work, because he comes into the kitchen shiny with sweat, wearing his oldest pair of soccer shorts and a shirt covered in paint from fixing the living room walls. He goes straight to the fridge to grab a soda and it’s Dean’s turn to salivate, feeling like a panting dog, staring up, up, up at Sam.

He rubs his dick through his pants, shamelessly staring at Sam’s legs and ass. Sam just stands there, staring back at Dean, dick obviously getting harder in his shorts, soda forgotten in his hand, blushing pink all over.

Dean doesn’t touch Sam. He gets his dick out and watches as Sam’s breathing changes, watches his dick getting harder and harder, head leaving a damp spot on the fabric, watches him swallowing over and over again. He jerks off, a little frantic, their breathing and the sound of Dean’s hand on his dick being only noise in the kitchen, until Sam puts his soda down, starts palming himself.

“Let me, Sammy,” he gasps, “C’mon, let me see.” He pleads until Sam takes off his shorts, kneels on the floor and exposes his hole.

It’s not what Dean was expecting, and he feels like his brain’s scrambled, fucking hell. Sam’s all fucking pink. His hole and his balls, and the head of his dick. And Dean wants to touch. Wants to put his tongue all over Sam, get him sloppy with spit. He wants to see Sam covered in spunk, wants to see him come.

He doesn’t fuck Sam, though. Doesn’t even touch him, just asks a lot of questions, “Do you touch yourself?” and “Have you ever put fingers in your hole?” and “How many fingers?” like the answers aren’t obvious by the way Sam’s dick is leaking on the floor, by the way Sam is moaning, all exposed and fucking pink.

Sam can’t seem to get a word out. Just gasps and groans, like he’s dying. Dean doesn’t fuck Sam, just jerks himself off and shoots hot all over his ass. He doesn’t touch, but watches hungrily as Sam gathers the come and pushes inside himself, whimpering. And doesn’t even bother turning around. Jerks himself off, shivering, fucking himself with two wet fingers until he shoots on the floor with a wounded noise.

Dean watches everything, mouth watering, and it’s the fucking hottest thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. 

*

“You know,” Sam says later, after he’s wiped himself off and is gulping down his soda, “In Stanford, no one will need to know you’re my brother.”

*

It’s a thought that refuses to leave Dean’s head. He thinks about how hungry they both were, how good it felt, the sight of Sam, pink all over. He thinks about that kiss, and all the things they could do in public, that they could do somewhere _people don’t know them_. He thinks about it until his dick is so hard, it’s actually sore, until he’s too clumsy to fix shit.

*

After that, it’s like a red light finally turned green, and it’s all sloppy making outs all the time, everywhere. It’s honestly the most awesome time Dean’s ever had that didn't include any dick insertion anywhere.

Though they actually don’t do anything that involve being naked again - and it honestly sucks so freaking much, Dean kinda feels like throwing a tantrum and yelling it’s _not fair_ at the top of his lungs - because they feel weird about it. They feel weird about fucking in the apartment they moved in after dad died and Dean was the one taking care of them. It’s weird to think that any sex noises they make might be heard by Mrs. Seaborn from downstairs, who, honest to God, baked them an apple pie after Sam told her that he’d gotten into Stanford. 

It’s too freaking weird to think that the place where Dean had to convince a Social Worker that he was good enough to keep Sam is the same place where he wants to bend Sam over and just, fucking, just go to town on him. Eat him up. But it’s even hard to remember all that when he’s got a lapful of squirming, breathless, eager Sam. It’s almost impossible to care when he can feel Sam’s hard dick through their pajamas, when Sam keeps rubbing his ass on Dean’s dick, when Dean can’t stop gasping, his heartbeat a loud drumming, and Sam’s sweet gasps in his ears making him shiver. 

Who even cares, really? If Sam was naked, Dean’s dick would be rubbing just right on his hole, and, seriously, what the fuck, who cares? He grabs Sam’s hair, making him hiss and whine, making him murmur, “Dean, Dean, fuck,” over and over like a prayer, before Dean takes pity on him, presses him closer, kisses him. 

Sam starts shaking, ass pressing down harder on Dean’s dick, moaning into the kiss, and honestly, the whole neighborhood could be here watching them and all he’d care about is the way Sam feels, the way he can’t stop squirming, rubbing his dick on Dean’s stomach, too desperate to even take it out. He tightens his hold on Sam’s hair, and feels it when Sam starts coming, shaking so hard, his ass is practically vibrating on Dean’s dick, then pushing away when he’s too sensitive.

Sam looks all dazed and pink after, smiling down at Dean in a way that makes his heart twist itself inside his chest. He takes a few deep breaths, lazily running his hands through Dean’s hair, and on his neck, under his shirt, making Dean shiver a little, anticipation making his brain fuzzy.

“Tell me you didn’t come yet, Dean,” he says, in the freaking same way he asks if Dean has washed the dishes. So Dean rolls his eyes, and pulls Sam back to sit on his dick, obviously hard. Sam smiles, all sunshine and satisfaction, and rubs his ass down experimentally, like he’s testing how hard Dean is. “Good,” he says, and Dean sorta wants to push him off and-- Sam pushes away and pulls on Dean’s pants, pulling his dick out. “God, Dean.”

Sam has long fingers, smooth palm, not calloused like Dean’s, and he squeezes softly, playfully, making Dean’s knees jerk, rubs the pad of his thumb right over the slit, making Dean moan, it feels so fucking good, but it’s not nearly enough to make him come.

“Fuck, Sammy, are you-- are you going anywhere with this?”

Sam smiles a little, not even looking up from what he’s doing, and his lips look even more wet now than it did while they were kissing. “I want to see you come, want to feel it between my fingers, you know?” He says, and Dean jerks again. “But at the same time? I want you coming in my mouth.”

“I vote mouth,” Dean gasps, and Sam laughs a little.

“Of course you would.”

“What can I say? I’m-- fuck, Sammy, I’m partial to blowjobs.”

Sam rolls his eyes, in his unimpressed baby brother way, and moves to kneel between Dean’s legs. If Dean thought Sam naked and exposed in the kitchen was a sight to see, it’s nothing compared with Sam, looking debauched, cheeks pink and lips wet, staring up at him, Dean’s dick in his hand. 

Dean barely has time to prepare himself for what’s coming, when Sam just starts. There’s no sweet licks and kisses like some people do, no warming up to it, Sam apparently sucks dick like he does everything else, the way he wants it, no hesitation. And just like that time when he wanted to ride a dirt bike, Dean feels like he’s having a heart attack. Sam just sucks it, tongue mercilessly rubbing under the head, fingers caressing Dean’s thighs. 

He holds onto the couch cushions for dear life, because Sam has stopped looking at Dean, he’s got his eyes closed now, hands making slow movements on his thighs, almost the same speed his mouth is moving. He keeps alternating between gagging himself, and sucking just the head, and they barely started, but Dean’s already desperate to come. 

“Sammy, fuck, Sammy, I’m gonna--”

“No, Dean, wait,” Sam gasps, his voice fucking wrecked, “Just a little?” he bends, licking over Dean’s balls, then sucking then, one at a time, then just under them, Dean’s dick looking heavy, wet, resting on Sam’s face, making a mess of it. Dean feels like his brain is having trouble keeping a connection to the real world. “Just, wait, please. I’m not done.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, takes deep breaths, tries to remember the lyrics to Kashmir, anything to keep himself from coming, and refuses to look down, to the way Sam’s hands rubbing so softly on his thighs, to Sam’s face partially hidden under Dean’s dick, to the way Sam keeps moaning, like sucking on Dean’s is a freaking religious experience.

This is it. This is how Dean dies. With Sam’s wet, perfect mouth.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, his voice still making something inside Dean all giddy, and he looks down to see Sam nuzzling the space between his balls and dick, sweet and adoring, and Dean can’t help himself, he grabs hold of his dick, and rubs the head on Sam’s lips, and on his cheek, and Sam closes his eyes, sighing, like all he wants from life is to have Dean’s dick on his face, spreading precome and spit.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, because he needs, he needs to fuck that sweet pink mouth, to feel what is like to have Sam’s throat around the head of his dick, over and over, until he can’t take it anymore. “Open up, c’mon.” Sam does, opens his mouth, perfect pink tongue out, letting Dean rub the head on it, curling his tongue, then closing his mouth carefully and sucking, shoving his face against Dean’s crotch carelessly, fucking thirsty, “Yeah, just like that, Sammy” Dean whispers and Sam moans, “Fuck, that’s what I want, Sammy.”

He doesn’t bother warning Sam, just holds his face and fucks his mouth, Sam moaning, trying to get more, screwing his face on Dean’s dick, and he honestly doesn’t know which one of them wants this more. He comes, and it keeps going until it’s almost too painful, until they’re both gasping, and there’s come on Sam’s chin. 

Sam wipes his chin with his fingers and licks them, pink tongue wrapping obscenely on his fingers, making happy noises, and Dean smirks, spreads his legs a little more. “You had fun?” he asks, and Sam ignores him, ducking down again to clean Dean’s balls, lick all the come he didn’t catch, and Dean’s not completely soft yet, but he’s already sensitive, “Sammy, fuck--”

“We’re donating the couch, Dean,” he says, like there’s any chance that Dean’s come is going to stain it, the way Sam’s licking it all up, “It’d be really terrible of us to leave a jizz stain. I’m just making sure.”

Dean’s thighs are shaking now, and he feels sensitive, every touch of Sam’s mouth making him twitch, but Sam’s jerking himself off now, in quick harsh movements, and Dean wants to put his dick back inside Sam’s mouth, wants to rest it there until he’s ready to fuck it again, until he’s less sensitive, wants to do it now, get Sam sucking him again, slow and sweet, for hours, until Dean’s balls are completely empty. So he tells Sam everything, watches as Sam gets wilder, making wounded noises, moaning and rubbing his face on Dean’s crotch. 

Sam comes with a loud gasp and Dean pets him through it, through his aftershocks, until Sam’s just kissing Dean’s soft dick, in total post-coital bliss.

*

“Where did you learn all this?” He asks, once Sam’s back on the couch, lying with his head on Dean’s lap. There’s something black and white playing on TV, but neither of them is paying attention. “Seriously, Sammy, what the fuck. That was some professional shit.”

Sam laughs, left hand hanging from the couch, idly playing with Dean’s calf. He’s still flushed, and he looks so fucking happy, Dean just wants to kiss him again. 

“Remember Arthur?”

“What? Emo kid? The one who liked My Chemical Romance?” Dean will pitch a fit if Sam tells him he fucked a My Chemical Romance fan.

“He wasn’t emo. I’m pretty sure he likes Country music,” Sam says, and that’s less bad, but still pretty lame, “We played My Chemical Romance when he was over, ‘cause I knew there’d be no fucking way that you’d come into my room with that playing.”

“Sammy! What the hell,” Dean says, “I can’t believe you! You fucked _him_?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiles up at him, “He liked fingering me, dude, what do you expect me to say?”

Dean’s brain doesn’t know which direction to take this, he’s not really jealous, but at the same time, he wants to be the one responsible for teaching Sam how to suck dick, wants to be the one fingering Sam, with maybe, who the fuck knows, AC/DC playing. He likes, though, that Sam’s already knows his shit. So he sighs, “I can’t believe you fooled me, shit.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, with the least innocent face he’s ever given Dean. “If it makes you feel better, he was terrible at fucking me. It was a little embarrassing.” Sam sighs, longsuffering, like his life is the hardest of all, “Riding a dildo was more exciting than riding his dick.”

*

That leads to Dean jerking him off, rubbing his hole with two fingers until Sam is gasping, whimpering against Dean’s thigh, and coming all over himself. He doesn’t even bother moving, just, opens his mouth and sucks Dean’s dick, so lazy and sweet that Dean feels boneless after, too lazy to move.

*

They wake up early the next day with the sound of Dean’s phone ringing. The people who are coming to take the couch will be there in fifteen, and Sam and Dean scramble to get dressed and make sure, absolutely sure there are no stains on that couch.

On the couch, none. On the floor where Sam was kneeling last night? An obvious one, that Dean ends up scrubbing while Sam makes them breakfast, because “I gave you two blowjobs last night, Dean, you might as well clean that.” Dean can’t even argue with that. 

That little shit.

*

Lawrence to Palo Alto is a two days drive. Even though they planned for it, have been planning this drive since Sam got his acceptance letter, Sam won’t let it go. 

“We could’ve hired a truck, and taken a plane, Dean,” Sam huffs, trying to fit his thousandth box of books inside the Impala’s truck.

“Planes crash, Sam.”

“Yes, so do cars, Dean,” Sam gives a final shove and the box slips in, but the duffle with his clothes pops out. “Shit. I’m just saying, the chances of a plane crash--”

“What are the chances of surviving a plane crash, Sammy?” Dean asks, grabbing the duffle and taking it to the backseat, which already contains most of Dean’s stuff, because unlike Sam he doesn’t collect every scrap of paper he’s ever touched. 

“Dean--”

“You wanna go get a ticket now? We’re leaving in an hour, you have time.”

Sam huffs again, but continues trying to play Tetris with his stuff in the trunk. 

*

They say goodbye to the neighbors and Mrs. Seaborn gives them a Tupperware container full of cookies, and a whole pie, still warm, that Dean cradles like a baby. They fill a thermos with coffee and give the apartment keys to the landlady. 

Two miles outside Lawrence, they stop to buy more coffee, toothbrushes and floss, because Sam has a thing about flossing and they left their toothbrushes on the bathroom counter.

Before he starts the car, Sam pulls him into a kiss, deep and promising. And neither of them can stop smiling for a long while after.

*

Sam had never been exactly what one would call a sweetheart. He was stubborn and too smart for his own good. He was the most important thing in the world, no doubt about it, and Dean could try to pretend not to be wrapped around his finger, but he’d been, well, smitten by Sam ever since they were small and Sam gave Dean his first gummy, toothless smile. 

He was up for whatever Sam wanted, and prayed that Sam never went into a life of crime because Dean’d be there beside him for the rest of their lives, or until the cops found them. And even then, Dean was pretty sure he’d lie through his fucking teeth, and say that Sam was innocent. 

So Dean should’ve known that when Sam agreed, _too quickly_ , that they should drive the whole day, for as long as they could, and spend a night in whatever motel they found, and be up early the next day to continue. Sam never liked driving at night, never liked eating in the car, and had the worst taste in music ever. He should’ve known that Sam only did it to shut Dean up.

*

Sometime after 5PM, Sam puts his hand on Dean’s knee. Just rests it there. Dean has trouble keeping focus on the road, and completely forgets the lyrics of Knocking at Your Back Door. All he can pay attention to is the warmth of Sam’s hand. 

“Sammy,” Dean starts, licks his lips, glances at Sam and licks his lips again, “Don’t start.”

“Aren’t you tired, Dean?” He asks, in that fake innocent tone of his, “Don’t you want to rest?”

“What? You wanna drive?”

“Nah. I’m tired too,” he says, and now he doesn’t even bother playing innocent, his hand moving in slow circles, getting closer to Dean’s dick. “We should find a motel for the night.”

Dean’s about to protest, say that there’s no way they’ll be in California tomorrow night if they stop now, but he glances at Sam again, notices that he’s squirming, face pink, lips wet, and Gillan sings _it's the thrill of the chase_ on the radio. Yeah, Dean’s not protesting shit.

“Ok, Jesus, ok,” Dean says, and Sam smirks, “Screw you.”

“Hopefully.”

Sam is awful, he’s the fucking worst.

*

They find a motel half an hour later, and by then Dean’s completely hard. Sam hasn’t stopped squirming, and his hand kept making those slow, awful circles on Dean’s thigh, and every fucking time Dean glanced at him, his lips were wet. 

The motel is not a cheap one, it has a pool, and a parking lot full of soccer mom cars, probably of families doing their summer trips. It’s well kept, and apparently they’ll have cable, but honestly, all Dean wants is a clean bed to take Sam to.

*

The only reason they make it past the door is that they’re both carrying duffle bags. But they still barely make it inside the room. Dean closes the door and Sam drops his stuff by the bed, the one king size bed, and starts pulling at Dean’s shirt. 

He has to drop everything because Sam’s mouth is on his, wet and lewd, and Sam’s making these hungry noises, rubbing himself all over Dean like a cat in heat. 

“Dean, take it off,” he says, between kisses, pulling hard at Dean’s clothes, “Take it off, take it off, c’mon.”

“Fuck, Sammy, ok,” Dean says, but can’t seem to stop roaming his hands over Sam’s body, squeezing his ass, “I will, just. C’mere.” 

They don’t even manage to get naked, just rub against each other, hard and fast, barely kissing, until they’re both spent, leaning against the door and panting.

“Well, that was juvenile,” Dean says, snickering.

“Don’t even, you came first,” Sam says, pushing away from the door and finally starts undressing.

“Did not.” 

“Did too.”

*

Sam showers while Dean gets their stuff away from the door, and orders pizza. If they’re staying in, they’ll have pizza. With meat and no freaking vegetables.

When he leaves the shower, the pizza’s already there, and Sam’s in bed, naked. His hair’s a still a little damp, but he’s completely dry, propped up by the pillows, the pizza between his legs and when Dean’s mouth waters, he’s absolutely sure it’s not because of the pizza.

“Did you answer the door like that?” He asks, drying his hair, and unabashedly staring at Sam’s body, his pink dick, his perfect soccer player legs. “Did you even need to tip?”

Sam smiles, not even bothering to blush when he notices Dean’s staring. “I had the bathrobe.”

*

Sam’s mouth tastes like cheese and salt, and his skin is warm and soft. He kisses slowly, tasting Dean’s mouth like they’ve got all the time in the world, and Dean’s already addicted. The fucking Earth could explode right now and Dean wouldn’t give a shit, he’s got Sam under him, on a giant soft bed, naked and pliant, his hands resting on Dean’s back, and honestly, the planet can go fuck itself.

Dean keeps stopping, though, to look at him. His red mouth, his pink cheeks, he looks almost drunk. His dick is hard, leaking steadily on his belly, and Dean will never get over it. How pink it is, the exact same shade as his lips, the sort of thing that makes Dean hungry. 

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, spreading his legs more, so Dean can kneel between them, and just, fucking look. Just fucking stare at Sam, spread on a bed, all for Dean.

He watches his hands roaming Sam’s body, his thumbs pressing on his nipples just to watch him squirm, he wants-- fuck, he wants to eat him up.

“What are you--” Sam starts when Dean grabs his thighs and spread him, until he can see the all the pink. “Dean.”

“You know what I thought about the most?” Dean asks, scooting back, until his legs are hanging off the bed, “Hold your legs for me, Sammy,” he touches the head of Sam’s dick, slick with precome, his balls, all that perfect pink skin, “In the kitchen that day. You know what I thought the most, Sammy?”

“What?”

“Eating you out,” Dean whispers. He licks the head of Sam’s dick, and Sam moans, leaking more, he sucks just under the head, gives it little soft kisses to hear Sam whine. “You make me so fucking hungry, Sammy, it’s ridiculous.” 

“Yeah?” Sam hugs his legs tighter, and it’s exactly what Dean wants. Right there, all for him. “What you gonna do about it?”

“Don’t rush me, Sammy,” Dean scoots down, until he can get at Sam’s hole, “I’m a man with a mission.”

He gives Sam’s hole a long, slow lick that makes him twitch and gasp. And he’s so fucking warm and soft, Dean does it again, and again, until it looks shiny, again, until it looks slick and wet. He kisses it, and gives it a long soft suck. Sam likes that, apparently. He whines and squirms, moans brokenly, like it’s too good and he doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s so fucking good, Dean gets a little lost in it. Sam keeps saying “Dean, Dean, Dean,” like a prayer, and Dean actually feels like a god. 

He looks up after a while, sees that Sam’s breathing has become ragged, his face red, mouth open and lips bitten. He looks like he’s completely unaware of anything else but Dean. 

Dean smirks, sucks on his balls, laves at it until Sam relaxes again, breathing slower. He uses his thumb, plays with Sam’s hole, pressing lightly until Sam’s moaning again, pressing back. He uses both thumbs to spread him more, so he can fuck him deeper with his tongue, deep long licks that make Sam keen and twitch more. And then Dean just goes for it. Fucks Sam with his tongue, fast and hard, until his jaw is aching, and Sam can barely get a word out, gasping, sobbing a little. 

Dean’s dick is hard, pressed between him and the mattress, but he doesn’t care enough. All he wants is to fuck Sam with his tongue. To ruin Sam for anyone else.

“Dean, Dean, please, I need--” Sam begs, his voice barely a rasp, won’t stop shaking, Dean’s awesome, holy fuck, “Please, Dean, I need--”

He doesn’t manage to tell Dean what he needs, because Dean presses one of his thumbs in along with his tongue and Sam sobs, cries out like he’s being electrocuted and comes, and comes, and comes. Dean keeps at it until Sam lets go of his legs, goes limp, just lays there, breathing ragged and shaking.

It’s impossible not to feel smug, watching how debauched Sam looks. Dean pets him, runs his hands over Sam’s legs, his hips, kisses his inner thighs, his crotch, the base of his soft dick. Sam looks awesome, fucking precious or something. Dean feels like the greatest thing on Earth, watching Sam recover from an orgasm like that.

Sam looks down and Dean tries to kill his smirk, but Sam catches it anyway, “Fuck… you,” he gasps, “I think… I’m dead. Am I dead?”

“You’re fine.”

“Stop smirking,” Sam bats at him with his foot, “Freaking jerk.”

“Bitch!” Dean sits up, slaps Sam’s leg out of the way. “That’s how you treat me? After I was so good to you?”

“Fuck you, Dean,” He says, but he’s laughing.

Dean wants to jerk off, to mess Sam’s stomach even more, but Sam’s staring at him again, licking his lips and swallowing dry. He’s got that look that mean nothing but great, amazing, awesome things are coming Dean’s way. He sits close to the headboard, props himself on the pillows Sam hasn’t pushed off the bed when Dean was rimming him - seriously, Dean? The fucking best, - and waits. Because one time on the couch was enough to make Dean understand that Sam has some sort of oral fixation, and any time he’s close enough to Dean’s dick, he’ll want to put it in his mouth. 

Dean barely has to wait two seconds before Sam’s flopping around ridiculously to get to his dick.

“Smooth,” Dean says, and Sam huffs. 

“You want me to suck it or do you want to keep talking, Dean?”

“Shutting up.”

*

“You know, I almost offered to blow you last year,” Sam says, calmly, like he’s not possibly scarring the little old man sitting at the booth behind them. 

“Sammy!” Dean might, possibly, maybe, be blushing a little. But the old man doesn’t seem to have heard. 

Sam rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of his orange juice. “Last year? You came home from work, with that white shirt, you know?”

Dean shakes his head, but he knows what shirt Sam’s talking about. It’s the shirt he used to wear every Monday. Monday was MILF day at the garage, the day moms would come to fix whatever their little brats did to their minivans. Coincidently, the day Dean got the biggest tips. 

“Yeah, you know, don’t even,” Sam says, “Artie--” Dean huffs, “--got a call halfway through and I had to finish by myself.” He licks his lips, “You came home, and you went into your bedroom, and came out in your boxers and that shirt. I swear to God, Dean, all I wanted was to kneel on the floor and suck you off. My mouth wouldn’t stop watering.”

Dean takes a gulp of his coffee and he’s pretty sure he’s burning his insides, but Sam’s still looking at him, too intent. “Fuck, Sammy.”

“I didn’t, ‘cause I was still seventeen,” He says, takes a bite of his spinach omelet and hums thoughtfully, “And I knew you’d never, not while I was underage. But fuck, Dean, that night?” He leans closer, “I fucked myself over and over again, you know? The next day I was so sore, you thought I had pulled something at soccer practice.”

Dean clears his throat, whispers “You fucked yourself?”

Sam nods, “I’ve got this dildo. I should show you sometime.”

“You really, _really_ should, Sammy.”

When Sam smiles his sunshine smile, Dean wants to grab him and spread him over the table. He thinks maybe the other patrons wouldn't as appreciative of Sam. Or maybe _they would_ be and Dean would have no other choice but to beat everyone up.

*

Dean has no choice but to take Sam to the diner’s bathroom to jerk him off, fast and hard, while Sam just clutches at Dean’s shoulders and whimpers beautifully between the dirtiest, most pornographic kisses Dean’s ever given anyone. 

“That’s what you get,” Dean says after they’re both clean and back at their table, and Sam’s still looking a little dazed, “For talking shit.”

Sam stares, “That’s not exactly punishment, Dean.”

*

“Why did you wait, though?” Sam asks later, when it’s his turn to drive.

“What?” Dean asks absently, seriously considering taking a long nap so they can drive though the night. But there’s no way, absolutely no fucking way that Sam won’t want to clean their new apartment first thing. And he will bitch for three weeks straight if Dean is too tired to help. 

“Why did you wait,” Sam says, “You know, for me to graduate and turn eighteen? You knew I wanted it, wanted you.”

“Ah,” Dean sighs, “Because, you’d be an adult.”

“So incest is fine, but only if I’m no longer underage? Dean, what--”

“No, Sammy, it’s--” Dean straightens and looks at him. He’s hoping Sam won’t flip his shit. “Look, I am-- was, I was your legal guardian. If I started some shit when you were a kid, and depended on me? I would be--”

“Dean, that’s not--”

“No, Sammy, I’m serious. I would be an asshole. You had to have the option.”

“Of leaving you?” Sam asks, and his voice is blank, blank, blank. “If I didn’t really want you, I’d be able to leave you? Just like that.”

Dean rubs his eyes with the pad of his hands, “Yeah, Sammy. You would have the option of leaving. Me. You could’ve gone and wouldn’t need me to, I don’t know, to--”

“You know,” Sam holds a hand up and Dean shuts up, “When you first started talking about me being independent, and saving my own money, and all that? At first I thought, _maybe I’m hallucinating this, maybe Dean doesn’t want it--_ ”

“Sam--”

“No, seriously, shut up.” He doesn’t even glance at Dean, just continues staring at the road ahead of them. “Obviously, I realized I was wrong, because you _fucking lick your lips_ when you stare at my ass.” Sam huffs and Dean rolls his eyes. “And you said yes when I asked you to help me look for an apartment for us. You didn’t even blink.”

“I had already been looking,” Dean confesses.

Sam glances at Dean then, smiles at him, “I just thought you didn’t like the idea of me being still a child, Dean.”

“I didn’t.”

“Ok,” Sam raises his eyebrows, “I also thought you wanted to fuck me.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, I got that too.” Sam’s really blushing now. “Turns out, your definition of fucking is much better, and broader, than mine.”

“How about that,” Deans murmurs, and Sam’s whole face is pink now. 

“Shut up, I’m driving.”

Dean smirks.

*

Sam stops at the first hour motel they drive by, and they spend the next three hours in bed. 

Most of it consisting of Sam riding Dean’s face, while getting mercilessly rimmed, until he’s begging and sobbing, holding into the headboard, saying “Don’t stop, don’t stop, Dean, please.”

After that, Sam sits on a pillow on the floor and sucks Dean off, so torturously slowly, and so fucking good that Dean doesn’t trust his legs enough to drive for almost two hours after they leave the motel.

*

They drive in shifts through the night and reaching Palo Alto early the next day. They both look and feel like zombies, though, ‘cause that hadn’t done that much driving since the summer when Sam was sixteen and they went on a road trip.

Coincidentally, that was also the first time Dean saw Sam half naked and thought all sorts of awesome and filthy things. And if he was reading Sam’s look correctly, it was mutual.

Their new landlord takes thirty minutes to show up with the keys, and they eat fresh warm donuts and drink some really awful coffee, sitting on the hood of the Impala and trying hard not to fall over while they wait.

“So,” Sam says, “Driving through the night? Really?”

“I’m regretting it, Sammy.”

“Yeah.”

*

The apartment is a little dusty, and the air is stale from the heat and the closed windows, but it’s nice, smaller than the one they shared in Lawrence, but brighter and less than ten minutes from the campus, which Sam is really excited about. Honest to God, though, Dean would probably sell the fucking car and drive around a school bus turned into a home if Sam wanted him to. 

They have no furniture, though. Other than the bathroom and the kitchen, the rooms are completely bare. 

Sam looks at Dean, and Dean nods. They get every bedding item they’ve brought and stack them on the least dusty piece of floor, and sleep through the morning. They’re too exhausted to even make out a little. Dean’s ideas are horrible, he should remember that.

In the afternoon, they go to Home Depot, Bed Bath & Beyond, the super market and end the day in the building’s basement doing laundry while browsing the IKEA website. Dean’s honest to God going to have nightmares about this day, and if they hadn’t sold the old house after Dad died, Dean would be crying right about now. 

Crying into his wallet and avoiding bank letters. 

Thankfully, they did sell the house and Sam got a full ride to Stanford, so they can absolutely buy this $800 king sized bed and all the other shit Sam says they need, like side tables, and all they’d need to turn the second bedroom into a place where Sam can study.

It occurs to Dean, sometime after they agree on going to the actual IKEA store tomorrow, while they’re carrying laundry baskets back to the apartment, that he’s going to be sharing a bed with Sam. That he’s going to come home every day to Sam, and that they have a whole summer to figure out how to best fuck each other for the rest of their fucking lives.

They clean around the best they can, shower and eat cereal for dinner. It’s all domestic and Dean’s felling really good about everything, lying on their makeshift bed with Sam, stealing the spoon from each other, getting milk and Lucky Charms all over their brand new super magical, special foam pillows - so fucking expensive, what the hell, Sam, those things better be the best fucking shit -, and watching some sort of show about a detective who enjoys posing with sunglasses.

Dean turns to Sam to say-- something, who knows, because Sam’s got a drop of milk on his chin, and Dean grabs the bowl and the spoon, pushes them as far away as possible, closes the laptop while Sam sputters and protests, so he can pull Sam on to his lap, and fucking lick him.

That shuts him up really quickly.

“What? Not gonna say you were watching that?” Dean murmurs, rubbing his stubble on Sam’s neck to hear him gasp.

“I was-- Oh, Jesus, I was watching that.” Sam says, breathless, running his hands through Dean’s hair, making him shiver. “I can finish later.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, scratching his nails over Sam’s hips. He wants to cover Sam with marks. “I can always stop.”

“You could,” Sam nods, then gives the other side of his neck for Dean to mark, pulling Dean by the hair to get him right under his ear, “Or you could fuck me. It’s totally your choice, Dean.”

Dean hums, sucks a bruise on his neck, slips his hands under Sam’s underwear, over his ass. “I could, huh? That what you want?”

“Yes, yes, Dean, c’mon.”

Dean pulls him into a kiss then, fucks his tongue inside until Sam’s all worked up, clutching at him like his life depends on sucking Dean’s tongue and rubbing his dick on Dean’s stomach. 

“You want me to fuck you?” Dean asks, pulling away to look at Sam’s face. 

He looks good enough to eat, and Dean’s seriously considering it, when Sam rubs his ass just the right way on Dean’s dick.

“I want you to fuck me, Dean,” he says, voice rough, almost riding Dean’s dick through their underwear. 

“Well, if you insist, Sammy,” He pushes until Sam’s on his back on the comforter, his legs spread, miles and miles of perfect skin all for Dean, “I can do this favor for you.”

“It’s a favor?” Sam smirks, “Don’t feel pressured, I’ve got this big, fat dildo…,” he moves in the direction of one of his boxes, and Dean grabs him by the thighs.

“I’m already here, why change plans,” he insists and Sam laughs.

There’s a brief moment where Dean is looking for the lube in his duffle and Sam’s trying to get out of his underwear, and Deans absolutely sure they’ll end up in the E.R., because they can’t stop touching long enough to be really productive, but things work out well and Dean’s got Sam completely naked on a pile of blankets and a bottle of slick right there, and everything is awesome. Sam’s blushing, and his dick is the most beautifully pink thing, completely hard, his balls already tight, so really, Dean has no other option but to put his mouth all over it.

He lies between Sam’s legs, and slicks his fingers, he wants to eat him out again, but Sam’s dick is really pink, and Dean’s mouth is watering, so he licks it from root to tip, around the head, sucks on the balls, basking on the way Sam moans, filthy and loud. He holds Sam still with one hand and swallows him down, getting as deep as he can. Sam moans louder then, trying to move his hips, starts pulling at Dean’s hair and scratching at his shoulders, while Dean just bobs his head, over and over, making Sam shake and cry out. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam is babbling, spurting precome on Dean’s tongue, “Oh, my God, Dean!” He sounds so desperate that Dean thinks this is the perfect moment to rub his slick fingers on Sam’s hole. Sam jolts and scratches at Dean’s shoulder, obviously overwhelmed. There’s spit and precome running down his chin, and when he pushes in with two fingers, Sam keens loudly, holding Dean by the hair and fucking his mouth with sloppy, uncoordinated movements that make Dean feel like he’s the fucking master of the universe. 

He knows he’s not going to last at all if he fucks Sam now, because Sam’s fucking hot and tight inside, squeezing around Dean’s fingers like he’s desperate to fuck. 

Dean’s a helpful soul though, so he pushes deeper, tries to follow Sam’s movements, finger fucking him with that same rhythm, with short, fast strokes that get Sam shouting and coming. Holy shit. Sam pants, a little wild, his movements are shaky, keeps fucking Dean’s mouth, and Dean tries his best to swallow, a little desperate himself, for this taste he’s been wanting for fuck knows how long, sucks and sucks, holding tight to Sam’s hip.

Sam goes limp then, chest heaving, but his dick’s still hard, and Dean doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t let it slip out of his mouth, continues sucking him, finger fucking him nice and sweet, until Sam’s tugging at his hair.

“Dean, fuck,” he croaks, and Dean gives a last slow suck and a soft kiss to the head of his dick, before he looks up. Sam’s a mess, his face and chest are red, his hair matted with sweat, but he’s smiling, dopey as fuck, and sort of petting Dean’s hair. 

“Sammy, please,” he begs, and he’s not even sure what he’s begging for, but he hasn’t had his fill, and Sam’s dick’s still not soft. He realizes that he still wants it in his mouth, wants to keep sucking until Sam’s completely empty, until Dean’s own throat is bruised. He fucking wants to be voiceless tomorrow, wants his lips raw. He kisses one of Sam’s balls, then the other, kisses the perfect pink head, “Please, I don’t wanna stop,” rubs his thumb under his balls and Sam twitches a little, “Let me.” 

He looks up, and Sam’s staring at him, with this dazed expression. “Yeah,” Sam nods, “Yeah, Jesus Christ, yes, please.”

Dean goes for it, feeling just as dazed as Sam looks. He closes his eyes, licks all the trace of come he can find, sucks the head as softly as he can, moves his fingers inside Sam, until Sam stops twitching and starts humming, running his hands through Dean’s hair, over his scratched shoulder, “You’re so good at this,” Sam says, and Dean hums. “Oh, fuck,” he touches the tip of his finger to Dean’s lip, through the mess of spit and come on his face. “You thought about this?” Dean hums again, and Sam moans, “Jesus, how-- how are you so good at this?”

“You think you’re the only who thought about this?” Dean smirks, nips Sam’s finger. He was never one for delayed gratification. He usually prefers the _do it now, think about consequences when they come_ kind of approach to life, but as much as he wants to fuck Sam now, to slip in where he’s so fucking hot and perfect, he wants to make Sam come again, and again and again if possible, but at least one more time. “I thought about this a lot, Sammy,” he rubs his nose over Sam’s balls, at the crease of his thigh, gives him the meanest hickey he can manage, while Sam just moans, “You have no idea the sort of things I want to do, Sam.”

“I kinda do,” Sam says, “Ridiculous? Weird? Probably illegal in a few countries?”

Dean laughs, “Yeah, ‘xactly.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Dean hums again, thinks _good_ , and sucks him back into his mouth. He doesn’t stop now, doesn’t pause, and absolutely doesn’t slow down. He fucks his mouth on Sam’s dick, shoves his fingers inside over and over again, until Sam’s squeezing his head with his thighs, until his throat feels raw and he can’t breathe right. He just wants, wants so fucking much, he thinks he makes more noise than Sam himself when he tastes the first spurts of come on his tongue. 

He lets go and just looks at Sam. 

Sam looks, well, fucking awesome. He looks like he’s just had the best fucking time of his life and Dean preens a little.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re good. Congratulations, Dean,” Sam drawls, “Shut up.”

“I’m the fucking best.” Dean wipes his face on Sam’s stomach and sits up, pulling his fingers out of him. He uses that same hand to jerk off, and Sam stares at Dean’s dick, licking his lips, while Dean thinks about straddling his face and fucking that mouth, but he won’t last. It’s a good thought, though. For later.

He comes hard, shaking with it, shooting over Sam’s balls and over that artwork of a hickey. 

“Here, give it here,” Sam opens his mouth, tongue out, and Dean feels something hot run through his spine when he scoops the come and feeds it to Sam, who moans, closing his eyes, sucking on Dean’s finger with such fucking talent, Dean wants to be hard again.

“Sammy, Jesus.” He kisses Sam, then, _he has to_ , it’s the law or something.

*

They fall asleep like that, sticky and sweaty, between sloppy, exhausted kisses.

*

He finally fucks Sam the next morning, after watching Sam fuck himself on the really ridiculous blue dildo for half an hour. 

He bends Sam by the window, where anyone who looked up could probably see them, and fucks him, as hard as he can, until Sam’s clawing at the walls and coming. Until he’s holding himself up weakly, but still begging, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, keep going, yes,” and saying Dean’s name over and over like a prayer. 

He fucks Sam until he can’t anymore, until he comes hard, deep inside Sam, making a mess of him. He plays with Sam’s hole, presses his fingers inside, rubs the pad of his thumb over it, feeling how hot and slick Sam is. 

And then they do it again, on the floor, just because they can.

*

“You know,” Sam says later that day, when they’re walking around the honestly terrifying IKEA store, “People are probably gonna notice that we share a last name.”

Dean smiles, “Yeah, I thought about that.”

“So?”

“I’ll tell them we got married. Shotgun wedding, ‘cause we got caught.”

“Caught--Dean!”

“I’m serious, Sammy!” Dean grabs his hand, “I loved you, and I was only a poor mechanic, you know--”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Your rich family would never let us be! So we thought they’d let us get married if I got you pregnant.”

Sam presses his free hand on his forehead, but Dean knows he wants to laugh. 

“Turns out I can’t get you pregnant, but our families didn’t know that.” He drops his voice to a whisper, “They only know boring missionary, procreation sex, Sammy. That’s why we got lucky.”

“Dean,” he says, but he’s smiling now.

“We’ll figure something out, dude. I could be a Campbell or something.”

“Yeah?” Sam sounds so fucking hopeful and happy, Dean has to tug him into a kiss, in the middle of the fucking store. That’s what Sam’s face does to him. 

“Yeah,” Dean kisses him again, just ‘cause he can. “Or we could say we were orphans! And ran away together to join the circus--”

“No.”

“Your secret dream is to be on the trapeze--”

“Just stop.”

*

End

**Author's Note:**

> Titles I considered: 
> 
> \- Pink (You Could Be My Flamingo)  
> \- Pink (I Wanna Wrap You in Rubber)
> 
> But let's be honest here, neither Dean nor Sam want anything wrapped in rubber. Maybe the bed.
> 
> This is the second time I almost used flamingo in a wincest fic title.
> 
> There's just something really charming about calling a dick a flamingo, right? So classy.


End file.
